


Snow Angels

by Wyrdmazer



Series: Translated Works [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Light-Hearted, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Scorbus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyrdmazer/pseuds/Wyrdmazer
Summary: As if whiteness was your home, Albus;as if the stars came down on earth to learn where they came from.





	Snow Angels

I watch in distant contemplation as you spread your arms and legs, and then align them back with your torso to immediately repeat the movement, and again, and again, and again, and again...

You'll never get to know the meaning

of snow angels.

You will never guess,

that in our deep depths, we are like those snow angels: they are, but they are not true; they are, yet they are not. And another wave of cold whiteness will come and we will all disappear.

Or they'll tread on us.

"Fun!"

I frown at the cheerful sound that escapes your lips in a shimmering cloud.

"What?"

You stop moving your arms and legs, and your eyes shift from somewhere on the milky grey depths of the cloudy infinity to me.

"Fun." You're grinning at me, your cheeks flushed and the skin in the corners of your eyes crinkles in excitement. "That's all that this is about, Scor. Fun. Not about looking good against the rest of the world, not about creating an appearance of _seriousness_. Fun!

I take one unsure step back as you rise to a sitting position and reach out to me with a gloved hand.

"Come on." You jerk your head in an encouraging gesture.

I purse my lips and clench my hands in my pockets, surveying your pinked face. You're smiling so prettily. Snow has clung to your cap; it's probably also on those few strands of your hair that never want to sit kindly under the warm material.

"I'm cold," slips out of me, mumbled without conviction. I look down immediately, making my eyes land on the indentation on the snow just in front of me.

You snort softly.

"Seriously, Scor?" A pause; you're probably shaking your head; this picture comes to me automatically. "You really could give it more, you know? I know you can."

The creaking of the snow and the characteristic rustling of your winter jacket let me know that you're getting up.

I just realized that these indentations on the snow are my own footsteps. Huh.

"Oh!" escapes my lips when a portion of snow hits my left thigh.

I look up to see you bending over, forming another snowball in your hands.

"Al!" I wince inwardly at the pitiful tone in which my vocal cords played your name. And then I dodge your next snowball. "There was nothing about snowballs!" I scold you, though I'm too gathering snow in my dragon-skin-covered hands.

"You were cold, right? Well, then," you hit me with a snowball again, "you'll warm up!"

Your graceful laughter resounds in the space around us, moving the frozen atoms of oxygen.

I dust the snow off my shoulder, standing up.

"Fine, fine; let it be your way, Al," I say calmly, a nonchalant drawl in my voice, though the smile tugs at the corners of my lips at the sight of your beaming face.

I let my snowball cut through the cold air and land with a dull thud... on your back, because you turn around to shield yourself.

"Wow, Scor, bravo. Seriously. Where did you learn to snowhit like this?"

You could at least try not to let your voice drip with sarcasm if it's obvious that you're using it.

Thanks.

"'Snowhit'?"

"My word, don't steal."

I lift the corner of my lips in a reflection of your face.

"I wasn't going to, it's stupid."

"It's not stupid, you're just jealous." You stuck your tongue out at me, swinging excessively with another portion of snow in your hand.

"Jealous of what?" I duck your snowball, sending one at you in response.

It misses you by a couple of inches. To my disappointment.

"You're the one who knows what." You gather snow from the ground without taking your eyes off me.

"No, believe me, I have absolutely no idea."

This time you hit me in the calf. I retort with a snowball on your forearm.

" _And I know you're lying,_ " you hum melodically, making an almost graceful pirouette towards me, snowhitting me in the stomach. "Ha! Fifty points for," you wince as my barely built snowball falls apart in a cloud of white dust on your head, "...Slytherin. Eh, so that's how we're playing?"

I break into a run when you gather snow in your hands half-step.

"It was lightly!" I shout with a laugh, without turning to you. "A-hey! And what was that for?"

I halt to a stop and turn in your direction, shielding my face with my hands, in case you're planning another attack on my head.

"Kids! Don't hit each other in the head!"

In some strange instinct, my eyes immediately find the owner of the voice: an old lady in a pale blue winter coat, a large white bag in her hand and a furry hood pulled over her head.

I look at you; you throw a freshly made snowball away, letting it sink in the ubiquitous whiteness.

"Alright, ma'am!" you shout back, raising your hand to wave at her.

The gesture is reciprocated and soon the stranger is walking away the still unshoveled pavement, many feet away from us, walking towards an only her known destination.

You giggle under your breath.

"You saw that, eh? Pff, we're not kids." You shake your head with a silly smile, sauntering over to me.

I let out a deep breath in a long cloud of steam that instantly blurs in the air.

"We do behave like kids," I notice in an absent voice, dusting my hands off from the snow and watching as less and less steps separate you from me.

You shrug, mimicking me.

"Hmm," you murmur softly; the smile doesn't come off your face as you're watching me back. "So? You're not cold anymore?"

The snowflakes from my last snowball have settled on your cap and hair.

"What?" And then I remember why this game had started at all. "Oh. Um, no, I'm not."

I take the last step between us to flick the snow off you.

"I didn't hit you too hard, did I?" Your furrowed eyebrows are barely a cherry on top when you look anxiously from my right eye to my left.

"No," I assure you, shaking my head for a good measure.

"You sure?"

Sometimes, Al, you overdo with worrying. Seriously. But that's nice; it's nice that you care about me. In such a human way.

"I am sure."

As if someone suddenly spilled joy on your face, your smile, and warm features are back.

And as if someone poured into my heart from the same chalice, everything inside me melts. I can even see it: I could lie down on the ground and the untimely spring would bloom.

This magic is the most wonderful thing in the universe.

"So, snow angels now?"

You're staring at me with such a touching childlike hope that it would _hurt_ to refuse you (or maybe even kill...). But, actually, I don't mind.

I laugh, taking a step back.

"Snow angels."

I love it when your eyes shine like that. Like stars, like snow, like diamonds. Only more beautiful. Because they're alive, with feelings, with emotions.

It means that you're happy.

It means that I am too.

"But..." I pause, placing my hands on your shoulders, "we'll do it my way."

You raise your eyebrows in puzzlement.

"Should I be afraid?"

I shake my head.

"No. There is absolutely no need."

In the next second – and in the accompaniment of your "woooh!" – you're lying on the snow, with me on top of you.

"Scor–"

"Shhh. Hush." I nuzzle my face into the warm space between your neck and the collar of your jacket. "Gimme your arms." You spread your arms obediently, I with you; I interlock our fingers. "Very nice. And now... we're making a snow angel."

You're shaking with laughter; mmm, this sound is my ambrosia.

Together, we move our arms and legs up and down, forming a characteristic shape on the snow.

"What is this supposed to be?" you sigh with a soft snort; your warm breath strokes my cheek.

I snuggle my face deeper into your warmth.

"A snow angel 'AlScor'," I answer calmly, closing my eyes, listening to the sound of the snow rustling under our joint weight.

"Uuuh-huh."

I'm not sure how you do it, but in the next moment, and to my momentary surprise, I'm lying on the ground with you on top.

"Now we'll do 'ScorAl'," you breathe into my cap-covered ear.

"Scorbus," I mumble absentmindedly, staring up at the sky.

"What?" You lift yourself up a bit on your arms and turn your flushed face towards me.

"Nothing."

I smile discreetly when your head rests on my scarf.

It's nice. Very nice, even. I'd never thought that making snow angels could be so... pleasant.

But... is it important what we're doing? Not for me. As long as it's together, with you.

The sky is grey, almost like my eyes. And the whole world is grey; grey-white, white-grey. Wintery.

Well, maybe not the whole world: on the South, they have summer now...

But we are on the cold, snowy North. The beautiful North.

And among the ubiquitous snow, among the white and grey everywhere around us, here we are. You and I. On the snow. Or rather, me on the snow, and you on top of me.

And we're making a snow angel. Together. It's our own one.

And it will disappear, someday, soon...

Who knows how... Will it get covered with fresh snow... will the wind bring the silvery fluff from somewhere else and cover it up... will somebody destroy it with their footsteps... or maybe some animal will trample upon it. Maybe something will piss on it. Or maybe someone will gather it for a snowman...

Or maybe it will stay here, untouched, until it melts.

"What are you thinking about?"

Your voice sounds drowsy. It would be nice, actually, to fall asleep here like this... It's so quiet here, so calm... the wind rustles with gentle gusts of December chill... and everything is white, white-grey, grey-white... Such a one big greywhiteness, interwoven with the colours of clothes, buildings, cars...

And here I am, in this spot in the world, with you and under you, staring with an unseeing gaze into the infinite cloudiness above us.

"I'm cold," I finally reply.

You sigh slowly and stretch lazily; I feel a bit like this part of our bed that is usually underneath you.

"Yeah, it can be cold _now_..." you breathe, rising to sit up. Our eyes meet. "Want to head back home?"

I smile, and something somewhere deep inside me jumps in a hot heartbeat.

_Home._

"Yes..." I answer as if in a trance; again, I sound strangely absent.

You stand up and give me your hand. After a moment of hesitation, I grab it and get to my feet. You dust me off carefully from the remnants of our snow angels making, and when I reciprocate, you wrap your arm around my waist.

"We'll make us something warm... Or hot, whichever you prefer." Snow creaks under our shoes as we walk lazily through the white desert. "And then, we'll take a hot bath..."

"...and we'll bury under the duvet and I'll read you a goodnight story," I fill in with a tender smile on my lips.

"As always."

You cup the side of my head with your free hand, and I automatically turn my head towards you so that our lips can meet for a short moment. This fond gesture ignites a distant flame in me and it's warmer at once.

_As always._

**Author's Note:**

> Just some slightly different Scorbus fluff (a translation of my work "Orły na śniegu", to be exact).  
> Hope you enjoyed. :)


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